On Aging and Perspective

“I don't like work--no man does--but I like what is in the work--the chance to find yourself. Your own reality--for yourself not for others--what no other man can ever know. They can only see the mere show, and never can tell what it really means.” 
“No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence--that which makes its truth, its meaning--its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream--alone.” 
-Joseph Conrad


Hey everyone,

Im writing you just a few hours after turning 26, and I'm writing you from Belgium, not London. My travel plans fell through fairly last-minute, which is unfortunate, but certainly not the end of the world. I would love to be preparing for my trip back to the Big Smoke (I'd be asleep, as a matter of fact) as I was really looking forward to seeing the place again, but there will be plenty of chances to do so in the future. Not going to London saves me quite a bit of money (roughly 300 US dollars is my estimate, unless I'd have gone overboard with buying people drinks, which, knowing myself, I probably would have). Instead, I bought myself six new books, a decent bottle of whisky and one of my favourite paintings, which is money well spent and far cheaper than two days in the UK.

I've also booked tickets for Boston (early April) and I'll be in New York for two days, and given the fact I won't be spending much in terms of lodgings, that trip will actually be only about three times as expensive as two days of London, to give you some idea.

The painting in case is The Hay Wain, by John Constable (not the original, duh, but a 75cm by 55cm reproduction on canvas). The fine people who printed it got the colours right and everything, and really, the result is quite marvelous. The original hangs in the National Gallery at Trafalgar Square, while Constable also made an oil sketch (as he did with all of his full-scale paintings), displayed at the Victoria and Albert Museum in Kensington. 

It's a fantastic work, with subtle but beautiful strokes, which I unfortunately can't appreciate in my reproduction. But it's not my favourite painting--it's not even my favourite Constable. The Hay Wain has special meaning for me, which I'll try to explain without making an ass of myself.

The sketch hangs just outside of the John Constable-wing in the Victoria and Albert Museum, a sort of welcome for visitors interested in his work. The wing itself is located past one of the museum's most famous halls, which includes Edgar Degas' Ballet Scene from the Opera Robert Le Diable, also a fantastic work and one I may be adding to my wall at some point in the future. The point is thousands of people enter that hall every day in search of the Degas (and several other fantastic pieces), lay eye on The Hay Wain and move on. Unless you're a tourist desperate to see everything the museum has to offer or just really interested in Constable, you'll probably pass one of the smaller and "less interesting" wings as you go. 

I happen to be a big fan of Constable, and I must have been to the (free) Victoria and Albert Museum at least five times during my seven-somewhat months in London. I saw the sketch at least five times (the original twice, and twice I couldn't stand the massive crowd standing in front of the piece), but around the sketch, things were quiet. For me, The Hay Wain was the last piece I saw before entering the Constable wing, with all its wonders. The painting presents promise, unmistakable joy right around the corner. And as I sit here now, at my desk, all I have to do is look up to feel that slight twitch, the hint of joy that awaits me. Maybe it's a Pavlov thing, but I like it. Our species is built around hope, fabricated or real. And this feels pleasant. Feel free to come check out my ("my") painting anytime you like.

Now, onto the birthday. Outside of a 2 p.m. appointment to get fitted with my first contacts, I don't really have any plans. My dad suggested I'd come around and I told him I couldn't because I may have had plans to meet up with someone. Im sorry to tell you this dad, but that was a lie. To be honest with you, I simply felt like having a quiet night at home with a good book and a glass of whisky once my plans for London fell through.

Any adult will tell you 26 is not old, simply because it isn't. I'm still a young man. But according to the latest censuses, I'm officialy a third of the way in. That's right--the average lifespan of an adult male is 78 as of right now (by the time we reach that age, it will either be higher or humanity will have been wiped out by a mutated virus/asteroid/alien invasion/mass famine/zombies/Judgement Day/nuclear warfare/take your pick). And that got me thinking.

At first, it was kind of depressing. I've mathematically lived roughly one third of my life, and for all intents and purposes, my best days are behind me. My body will start to decay at some point in the future, with the damage being irreversible. The days of playing in the mud without a care in the world are gone. Instead of riding my bike, thinking girl are ickey and struggling with counting to 50, I'm paying taxes, saving money for retirement and forcing myself into eating things I don't like, simply because it's good for me. 

After 33.33 percent of the time allotted to me, I've managed to acquire very little. I have a job I like and which provides me with everything I need to survive, a small studio appartment, relatives in reasonable health and a handful of friends I care deeply about but may not see as often as I'd like. There's no girlfriend or love interest, no offspring (thank god for that. I'm 26, and in this day and age, kids come later), no greatness waiting in the wings. In fact, I don't even own a car or a television. Other than the fact I pay taxes, I have very little to offer to this world. Sure, it's bizarre to hear I actually have "fans" of my work as a sports writer in faraway places like Boston (thanks for that anecdote, Wannes), but the day I stop writing is the day they find their fix with another journalist. 
What Im about to say to you is meant as a practical viewpoint, and I don't mean it as a depressing thought in any way, but if we're being completely honest, my hypothetical death would have virtually no impact on this planet. Friends and family would mourn, for a while, but given the fact they really don't see me or hear of me all that often, their everyday lives would hardly be impacted. I know they'd miss me--of course they would--but they would manage, and soon pick up where they left off and carry on. My bosses would have to find a replacement, my landlord a new tennant. There's no grieving widow, no child forced to grow up fatherless and no pivotal work going unfinished. 

One third into this adventure we call life, I've  "achieved" virtually nothing. And seven days out of ten, this botters me tremendously. But not today. Because, when you think of it, I have it pretty good. Sure, most of the time  I hate my life and current living situation, but I have a good job I enjoy doing, friends I can count on, a family that will always be there for me, money in my pocket and a good health. I've seen more of the world than most ever will, enjoyed a dream life as a surf coach for several years and now get to do for a living what I dreamt of doing when I was 15--write. I can't help but think of a scene from White Collar (for those of you who know it), in season three, when Jones has to help the husband of a girl he used to date. He sits down with Caffrey in his appartment to have a drink, and for the first time in the series, really, we get a glimpse of the fact he's human, not just a badge. I'm trying my hardest to find a clip of the scene online to link for you, but apart from linking you to the entire episode (illegally), I can't seem to find anything. So, I'm just going to link to the script of the scene here, if you don't mind. Obviously it hardly tells the whole story, and I truly suggest you look up the eiposde and watch it (Season Three, Episode Eight: Come As You Were):

Caffrey: Yeah, so, while we were waiting, I thought maybe you could use a drink. 
Jones: Come on in. I'll get a couple glasses. 
Caffrey: Okay. 
Jones: I screwed up. 
Caffrey: Aw, a little bit. But you're a good man, Jones. 
Jones: Yeah? 
Caffrey: Yeah. 
Jones: Then why did I let van Horn get to me? 
Caffrey: Mm, same reason that landed me consecutive 4-year prison sentences. 
Jones: What, an almost sociopathic need to tell lies of omission and get something for nothing? 
Caffrey: I was gonna say "passion.” 
Jones: Mm. Passion. 
Caffrey: Yeah, it makes the world go 'round. Passion to get what we want, passion to keep what we have, passion to get back to things we lost. 
Jones: No. I left Isabelle...for a reason. 
Caffrey: Which was? 
Jones: Which was, if we had stayed together, she would have been miserable. She would've had to quit her job, move to the city, and you know the hours that I keep at the Bureau. We never would have seen each other. So I made a choice. 
Caffrey: To leave? 
Jones: To leave. We can't have it all, right? 
Caffrey: Well, why not? 
Jones: Why not? 
Caffrey: Why not? 
Jones: Why not? 
Caffrey: Why not? 
Jones: Well, because choices are sacrifices. And, inevitably, that means giving up something that you want for something that you want more. So, now I have to ask... What does "having it all" mean to Neal Caffrey? 
Caffrey: Never having to worry about money. Um, doing something that's meaningful, being surrounded by people I care about and respect, you know. That's pretty much the dream. 
Jones: Screw you. 
Caffrey: Screw me? 
Jones: Screw you. You're already living the dream. 
Caffrey: Oh, come on. 
Jones: No, you are the damned dream with a tracking anklet. Am I wrong? 
Caffrey: Well, screw you back, Jones, 'cause you got the same things I do. 
Jones: Yeah, well, maybe not the same living arrangements. Am I right? 
Caffrey: Yeah. 
Jones: I guess I do have it pretty good, don't I? 
Caffrey: Yeah. Guess we both do. 

What it comes down to is that Jones is upset over the things he lost, but he and Caffrey (the main character) come to the conclusion that, while both of their situations are less than ideal, they both ended up in a pretty good situation, living a fulfilling life by any standards. It feels odd (and almost wrong) to compare my life to a TV show, but in a way, that's how I feel right now. I'm 26 years old, and I'm living a pretty good life. Sure, I'm not an FBI agent (that would be freakin' awesome) but there's nothing wrong with my job, and I love doing it. There's plenty I've lost in these past 26 years. There has been heartache, tears, misery in its purest form. There have been countless disappointments, times I had no clue how I was going to pick myself up from what had happened and even times I seriously contemplated making sure I'd never reach the age of 26. And yes, there are nights I still cry myself to sleep, to this day. And all of that is fine. It's part of who I am, and part of who most of us are. And if I die tomorrow (God forbid), I'll still have lived a great, full life, and I'll go smiling. Life's pretty awesome for most of us, guys. 

Back when I was still a surf coach (my boss would refer to this period as "Beachboy," which is incredibly embarrassing), I had this one song I'd periodically turn on. I'd dance like an absolute maniac, and I wouldn't care less people were looking at me as if I was having a stroke. I loved acting out and just having fun, and I still do. And before long, people would join in, and we'd all have a blast. Because that's what life is--a blast. Considering this is my birthday (aka "my day"), I'll play you out with my song. 


Song of the Day: Gigi D'Agostino: L'Amour Toujours
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w15oWDh02K4

On Craziness and Caring

“This hill though high I covent ascend;
The difficulty will not me offend;
For I perceive the way of life lies here.
Come, pluck up, heart; let's neither faint nor fear. ” 
-John Bunyan


I could probably pen a few thousand words on everything that has happened in the past week, from the dreadful attack in Paris to the state of siege Belgium currently finds itself in after a series of arrests and shootouts two days ago. As I am writing this, well-armed policemen are just finishing their patrol of the Oude Markt in Leuven--truly a sight I had never seen. Media coverage of the ongoing operations are continous; people don't seem to care all that much.

What happened in Paris was terrible, but I don't feel like getting into it. To be frank, I'm tired of writing down everlasting monologues on morality. The world is a f*cked up place, and if the first two weeks of 2015 are any indication, we're in for a rough year. When journalists are being targeted over satire, you can't escape the feeling you may have reached a point of no-return.

But what bothers me even worse is the reaction so many people in the West appear to have. An assault on freedom of speech is answered by a proposition to limit what one can sya on the internet, seemingly to the joy of all who hear it. The major of Antwerp, or the self-professed saviour of conservative Flanders if you prefer, is answering the elevated terror threat by mobilising the military in the centre of one of this country's populous cities (let's face it, it stopped being my country a long time ago). Openly racist marches are being organised on my bloody birthday (since moved to the 26th, thank you very much), with the organising committe made up of 40-year-old housewives whose favourite slogan is "what of the children" and whose 13-point program contains a literal assault on "political correctness," a term that, as my colleague King Kaufman adequately stated, "is what people accuse you of if they don't like it when you aks them to respect other people."

But like I said, I don't feel like getting into it. I don't want to get preachy or launch an extended rant in a desperate effort to convince one or two of you of the fact that I am right and everybody else is stupid. Because in the end, that's all it is. And if those Pegida motherf*ckers can mobilise thousands to march, who am I to tell them they should refrain from reproducing for the betterment of our species?

Of all the pains this world has thrown at me, one of the worst I've ever felt is the knowledge someone I care about is struggling. Knowing someone you love is in a place he or she would rather not be in and scarcely having the opportunity to help them just plain s*cks. Whether it's because you're not nearby or for any other of a million reasons, the emptiness you feel when you can't help someone you truly care for can be overwhelming, instantly drowning out whatever personal cr*p it is you have going on. I don't have that many people I truly, deeply care for. Sure, I'm generally a kind person whose friendly to just about anyone, but (and I'm sorry to say this) the vast majority of you are people I like, but care very little about. When you come to me with your problems and issues (which for some reason you do all the time), I'll glady listen, smile, tell you how awful that is and have the smooth sounds of Daybreak playing in my mind the entire time. There's also the select few of you who are dead to me, who generally receive a similar treatment to a different song (take your pick).

I'm not sure where I'm going with this. The point is people around me aren't so well, and it feels terrible I can't seem to help. In a twisted, selfish way that rightly pisses me off, because I want to be there and show those people I care. My general state of mind is one of semi-depression, stuck in a rut in a country I'd rather not be in and having pressed the pause button on the only future I still foresee. Forgive me for wanting to help someone else from time to time. I can't wait for January to be over and my social life to somewhat resume.

I still haven't booked my tickets for London at the end of this month (the cost has likely trippled in the process) as I wasn't sure whether anyone would actually accommodate me and I still had some stuff to take care of here in Belgium, but it now seems like I actually have a place to stay and at least two social appointments I should follow up on (look! These people love me!) so I'm pretty sure I'll be coming down there anyhow, if only for the Mr. Kipling cakes you guys have ordered me to eat. They do look delicious. Women in Boston are apparently easy, according to Wannes, so April can't come soon enough either. Unless they haven't forgotten about the Revolutionary War yet, my British accent should serve me well, so to hell with Wannes' ridiculous 36-point record.

Just kidding, obviously.

Be safe everyone, and take care. Violence and terror can be frightening when you think about it (which is what I tried to do every day as I walked over the site of the 2001 BBC bombing near my home in White City, or came across Shepherd's Bush station), and I'm glad to see just about no one here in Belgium is actively thinking about it at all. I hope my compatriots currently residing in the USA are great (you both make the list of people I care about, Elise and Wannes. Rejoice!) and enjoy as much as they can of the time they have in good 'ol 'Murica. I'll see you guys soon.

And remember, if you ever feel sad, you can counter that emotion with better ones, like sugar or drunk (2 points for whoever catches that reference).


Song of the Day: Mama Cas Elliot - Make Your Own Kind of Music
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SbSM02_1k34

PS: This is the greatest website ever. Apologies in advance: http://shipyourenemiesglitter.com/